Chapter 6: My Sister's Betrayal Wasn't the Biggest Lie
I found Camille exactly where I had left her.
She was sitting alone in the conference room, staring at the empty chair where our father had been.
When I entered, she looked up.
"What's wrong?""
I placed my phone on the table.
"Do you want to explain this?""
She frowned.
"Explain what?""
I played the voicemail Richard had left.
His voice filled the room.
The company is preparing to release a statement accusing you of stealing the design from your sister. They've attached a signed witness statement from Camille Carter.
My sister went completely still.
Then she whispered, "No.""
I watched her face.
"Is that your signature?""
She shook her head.
"Absolutely not.""
"Then why does the company have it?""
"I don't know.""
"Camille.""
She stood.
"I swear to you, Nia. I never signed anything accusing you of stealing the gown.""
I studied her.
A few hours earlier, I would have believed her without question.
Now I wasn't sure I could believe anything.
"Then prove it.""
She took out her phone.
Her fingers moved quickly across the screen.
"I'll call the board.""
She pressed a contact.
The call rang twice.
"Mr. Hale? This is Camille Carter.""
A man's voice answered.
"Camille. I was just about to contact you.""
"I heard about the statement.""
"Good. Then you understand the situation.""
"I never signed a witness statement against Nia.""
There was a pause.
"Your father provided it.""
"I didn't sign it.""
"Perhaps you should discuss that with him.""
Camille tightened her grip on the phone.
"Send me the document.""
"That's confidential.""
"I'm a shareholder.""
"Not anymore.""
Camille froze.
"What?""
"Your shares were transferred this morning.""
She looked at me.
"Transferred to whom?""
Mr. Hale answered.
"Daniel Carter.""
Camille's face drained of color.
"That's impossible.""
"Your father exercised the authority granted under the original shareholder agreement.""
"That agreement was signed years ago!""
"Yes.""
Camille ended the call.
For several seconds, she simply stood there.
Then she sat down.
"He took my company.""
I looked at her.
"Just like he took Grandma's designs.""
She nodded slowly.
I pulled out a chair.
"Camille, tell me everything.""
This time, she didn't argue.
An hour later, we were sitting in a quiet corner of the hotel café.
My mother had gone home to retrieve the remaining archive documents.
Camille had ordered tea but hadn't touched it.
Outside, rain slid down the windows.
She stared into the cup.
"Dad started changing after Carter Atelier began losing money.""
"How much money?""
"Almost everything.""
I leaned forward.
"Why?""
"He expanded too quickly. He opened a second showroom, hired expensive consultants, and signed contracts he couldn't afford.""
I frowned.
"Then why did he keep telling us the company was successful?""
"Because he needed investors.""
She finally lifted the cup.
"And because he wanted us to believe he was still the man who built the family business.""
I thought about the way he had spoken at the competition.
The confidence.
The expensive suit.
The certainty that everything belonged to him.
"What happened when he learned about my gown?""
Camille set the cup down.
"He saw a photograph on my phone.""
"When?""
"About three months ago.""
I remembered the first time she had touched the turquoise bodice.
Her sudden interest.
Her questions about the pattern.
She continued.
"He asked where I'd gotten the design. I told him you were working on it. He asked whether you'd finished the train.""
I stared at her.
"What did he say?""
"He told me it was almost identical to Grandma's original design.""
"Then what?""
"He said it was the answer to all our problems.""
I shook my head.
"How?""
"He believed the old collection could be marketed again. He said the original turquoise gown would attract investors, and if I presented it as my own interpretation, nobody would question it.""
I looked out at the rain.
"And you agreed.""
Camille nodded.
"I thought he was going to give you credit afterward.""
"Why would he?""
She didn't answer.
I looked at her.
"Did you ever think about asking me?""
She lowered her head.
"I was afraid you'd say no.""
"Of course I would have.""
"I know.""
She pressed her fingers against her forehead.
"I kept telling myself I was only borrowing the dress. I told myself you were talented enough to make another one.""
I felt something break inside me.
"You don't get to decide what my work is worth.""
"I know.""
"You don't get to decide that my dreams are less important because yours came first.""
"I know.""
I stood.
"Then why did you sign the entry form?""
Camille looked up.
"I didn't.""
I stopped.
"What?""
"I didn't submit the entry.""
She reached into her handbag and removed a printed email.
"Look.""
The message was dated three weeks earlier.
It was addressed to the competition's registration office.
The sender was Carter Atelier's administrative account.
The subject line read:
*FINAL DESIGN SUBMISSION — CAMILLE CARTER.*
Attached was a photograph of my gown.
But the sender's name was not Camille.
It was Daniel Carter.
I looked at her.
"He submitted it himself?""
Camille nodded.
"He told me afterward that he'd handled the paperwork.""
I stared at the email.
Then I noticed another attachment.
A scanned document.
A witness statement.
The signature at the bottom looked like Camille's.
But the date was wrong.
It was dated two days before she had supposedly approved the design.
I leaned closer.
"Did you see this before?""
"No.""
I zoomed in on the signature.
Something about it bothered me.
The letters were too clean.
Too consistent.
Like someone had copied them from another document.
Camille took the phone.
"That's not how I sign my name.""
I looked at her.
"Can you prove it?""
She opened her banking app and showed me a digital authorization from the same month.
Her signature looked completely different.
Then she pulled out a photograph of a contract she had signed at the studio.
Same result.
"This is fake," she whispered.
For the first time, I believed her.
But that raised another question.
If our father had forged Camille's signature, what else had he forged?
At 10:15 p.m., we arrived at our family home.
The house was dark except for the light in the kitchen.
My mother was sitting at the table.
In front of her were three old folders and a laptop.
She looked up when we entered.
"You're both here.""
Camille placed her handbag on the counter.
"Mom, Dad forged my signature.""
My mother closed her eyes.
"I was afraid he would.""
I stopped.
"You knew?""
She looked at me.
"I suspected.""
"Why didn't you tell us?""
"Because I needed proof.""
She opened the laptop.
A recording file appeared on the screen.
The date was from six weeks earlier.
I looked at her.
"What is that?""
"A conversation between your father and someone from the company.""
"How did you get it?""
"Your grandmother's old archive contained a digital backup. I found it last week.""
She pressed play.
At first, there was static.
Then my father's voice emerged.
"Once the gown is presented under Camille's name, we can sell the collection again.""
A second voice answered.
"What about the original rights?""
"Margaret signed the transfer. The company owns everything.""
"Not the archive.""
My father's voice became sharper.
"Nobody cares about the archive.""
The other man hesitated.
"And the younger girl?""
"Nia?""
"Yes. She's the one who made the gown.""
My father's reply made my stomach turn.
"She's seventeen. She'll do what her family tells her.""
I gripped the edge of the table.
The recording continued.
"What if she refuses?""
A pause.
Then my father laughed.
"Then we'll make sure nobody believes her.""
The recording ended.
Nobody spoke.
My mother closed the laptop.
"That's why I kept the documents.""
Camille stared at the screen.
"He knew I was taking the credit.""
"He planned it," Mom said.
Camille began crying.
"He used me.""
I looked at her.
"He used both of us.""
My mother nodded.
"But there's more.""
She opened the oldest folder.
Inside was a stack of photographs showing my grandmother's original collection.
Each dress had a number.
Each pattern had a corresponding handwritten label.
At the bottom was a page marked:
*DESIGNERS' ORIGINAL AGREEMENT — CARTER FAMILY COLLECTION.*
My mother slid it toward me.
I read the names.
Evelyn Carter.
Margaret Carter.
Daniel Carter.
Then a fourth name.
Thomas Reed.
I looked up.
"Why is the lawyer listed?""
"Because he helped draft the original agreement," Mom explained.
I scanned the document again.
There was a section about future generations.
A clause stating that the creative archive could never be permanently transferred outside the Carter family without unanimous approval from the original contributors or their legal heirs.
I looked at my mother.
"Then Dad couldn't sell it.""
"No.""
"Even if he had your signature?""
"No.""
My mother tapped the bottom of the page.
"Because I never had the authority to approve that transfer alone.""
I looked at the date.
The agreement had been signed sixteen years ago.
Which meant my father had known the sale was invalid.
He had built his entire business on paperwork that could be challenged.
And now he was trying to silence the people who could prove it.
The following morning, Helena called.
She wanted to meet us at her fashion house.
I arrived with my mother and Camille just after ten.
The building was enormous, with glass walls, polished stone floors, and framed photographs of international runway shows lining the entrance.
Helena greeted us personally.
"I've spoken with the competition committee," she said.
"Your win will remain official.""
I exhaled.
"Thank you.""
"But the legal dispute is becoming more serious.""
She led us into her office.
A large screen displayed a news article.
*CARTER ATELIER ACCUSES YOUNG DESIGNER OF STOLEN COLLECTION.*
Beneath the headline was a photograph of me.
My face was partially obscured, but the turquoise gown was clearly visible.
I felt sick.
"They published this already?""
Helena nodded.
"At six this morning.""
Camille picked up the article.
"This is based on the forged statement.""
Helena looked at her.
"Can you prove that?""
Camille handed over the emails and signature samples.
Helena examined them.
Then she turned toward her assistant.
"Contact our legal department. I want the original submission records preserved.""
She looked at me.
"Until this is resolved, don't make public accusations you can't document.""
I nodded.
Then she opened another folder.
"There's something else.""
She removed a photograph of my grandmother standing beside a young Helena.
They were in the same sewing studio.
My grandmother was holding a turquoise sketch.
Helena was laughing.
I looked at her.
"You worked with Grandma?""
"Yes. I was a young designer at the time. Evelyn was one of the most extraordinary people I ever met.""
She paused.
"She also saved my career.""
I frowned.
"How?""
Helena sat down.
"Years ago, a major fashion house accused me of copying one of their designs. Evelyn helped me prove that my work was original. She gave me the pattern records, the construction notes, and the courage to fight.""
I looked at the photograph again.
"Then why didn't she tell me about you?""
"She didn't want you growing up believing your future depended on someone else's influence.""
Helena smiled.
"She wanted you to earn your place.""
I felt tears gather in my eyes.
Then Helena opened a drawer.
Inside was a small turquoise crystal.
It was shaped like a teardrop.
"She gave me this before she died," Helena said.
"She asked me to keep it until the day someone in her family came looking for the truth.""
She placed it in my palm.
"She said I would know the right person when I saw her work.""
I closed my fingers around it.
For a moment, I could almost hear Grandma laughing in the old studio.
Then Helena's assistant entered without knocking.
"Helena, I'm sorry. There's an urgent call from the board.""
Helena frowned.
"What happened?""
The assistant looked at me.
"It's about the Carter archive.""
"Go on.""
"The original collection has just been listed for auction.""
My mother stood.
"That's impossible.""
The assistant placed a tablet on the desk.
A photograph appeared.
It showed twelve original Carter designs, including the turquoise gown.
The auction listing named the seller.
*CARTER ATELIER — AUTHORIZED REPRESENTATIVE: DANIEL CARTER.*
I stared at the screen.
Then I noticed the auction date.
Tomorrow.
My father wasn't just trying to take credit for the dress.
He was preparing to sell my grandmother's entire legacy.
And the final item listed in the collection was something none of us had ever seen before.
A thirteenth design.
Its title was:
*THE LAST CARTER DRESS.*
Beneath the photograph was a short description.
An unreleased original creation by Evelyn Carter, believed to contain the final evidence concerning the ownership of the Carter collection.
I looked at my mother.
She had gone pale.
"Mom," I whispered.
"What is the thirteenth dress?""
She stared at the screen.
May you like
Then she said something that made Camille drop the tablet.
"Because that dress was never supposed to exist.""
